At last she said quietly to Johanna, “I must ask a favor of you.”
Johanna turned to her. Between her eyes was a tiny frown of doubt and, possibly, disappointment.
Gwyneth felt her heart twist once, knowing as she did that her friend doubted her, and knowing that in order to secure her assistance in helping Beresford, she would need for Johanna to believe in her. At the same time, she was a stranger in a foreign court. For the same reason that she did not expect Beresford to accept her word against his fellow knight, Valmey, neither could she divulge to Johanna her suspicions concerning Rosalyn. It would not increase her credibility or further her cause.
She took a breath and said quickly, “It was necessary for me to ask Rosalyn when Geoffrey of Senlis was to appear in the jousting order. Don’t ask me why I had to ask, for I cannot explain it all. It’s just that—”
Johanna’s expression lost a trace of its vague doubt. Her kind eyes held a glimmer of hope. “Yes?”
“It’s just that I am worried about Beresford.” Gwyneth said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Please believe me!”
“Is it Rosalyn who has you worried?” Johanna asked directly. “She was very rude to you.”
“Yes, she was,” Gwyneth said, grateful that Johanna had also perceived the jealous beauty’s behavior as such. “But it was not her rudeness, exactly, that has me worried. It’s rather that I have reason to believe that some mischief is planned against Beresford.”
“And you want my help.”
Gwyneth’s nod was minimal, but definite. “Do you know which of Beresford’s squires is Langley?”
Johanna scanned the edges of the field and spotted the tree on which Beresford’s shield was hung and around which his party milled, on duty. “I see him,” she affirmed.
“He is Beresford’s most-trusted squire, I think,” Gwyneth told her. “I wish for you to seek him out and tell him that he should carefully inspect his master’s weapons and armor before the fifth joust. Do you think that is possible?”
“It is not impossible,” Johanna said, “but it is not the easiest thing, either.”
Gwyneth felt her companion’s reluctance. She did not know how much to tell, how much to withhold, and so was silent.
“Perhaps you could send a boy over to Langley with such a message,” Johanna suggested after a moment.
“No,” Gwynetb replied immediately. “No, I trust no one but you. And I dare not go myself, for fear that my action will be … misinterpreted. I should tell you that I suspect another of Beresford’s squires of disloyalty. Or perhaps he thinks only that he is participating in a prank! I do not know, but I feel quite sure that Langley can be trusted.”
“I believe that Beresford has in training,” Johanna said, “one of Breteuil’s nephews.”
Gwyneth met her eye. “Yes, I believe he does.”
Johanna regarded Gwyneth curiously. “Are you thinking that Renaut of Breteuil rides again as the unknown and means Beresford harm? I can assure you that such a strange plot is highly unlikely!”
Gwyneth shook her head. “No, I do not think that Sire Breteuil is the unknown knight.”
“But I have not seen Sir Renaut yet today,” Johanna reasoned, “now that I come to think on it. It could be he who has been wearing the helmet all day. Rosalyn is no doubt right that Adela has chosen him again, precisely because no one would be expecting him twice.” She craned her head. “Where is he, the unknown that I spotted earlier?”
Gwyneth did not bother to look for she did not need to lay eyes again on the big, broad, helmeted man to convince herself that Gunnar Erickson was in disguise on the field, armed with an illegally sharp lance designed to outrer, or pierce, the enemy. She suspected, as well, that Renaut of Bieteuil was probably confined, indisposed from unnatural causes, somewhere far away from the tournament field. She suspected further that Adela was not aware a switch had been made from one unknown to the other. Whether or not Beresford’s squire Breteuil was party to the whole scheme, Gwyneth did not know, but she doubted it. She had a strong intuition that the foolish young man had been set up by Valmey to take the entire blame for the outcome of the joust.
Thoughts of that outcome caused Gwyneth to lay an urgent hand on Johanna’s arm. She felt her throat constrict with a very real fear, and for the first time in her life, her fear was not for herself. “Just tell Langley to pay careful attention,” she whispered painfully, “to all aspects of Beresford’s equipment—and probably his horse, as well—before the fifth joust.” When Johanna looked up at her gravely, Gwyneth managed the final words, “Please consider. This simple message can do nothing at all to harm Beresford. Only to help him.”
Johanna nodded. She rose and began to excuse herself, slipping past legs and knees to leave the stands.
It took an eternity for her to make her way casually through the crowds, around the interior of the palisade, as if she had no goal in mind, and to catch Langley’s attention. It was already well into the second joust when Johanna caught the young man’s attention. All the while, seated in the stands, Gwyneth felt the pounding of her heart seconded by the continuous thundering of the horses’ hooves on the field.
The second joust ended. Serried ranks of knights took the field, riding with their lances couched in rest, passing, avoiding, meeting. The unknown took the field for the third joust just as Johanna ended her conversation with Langley. The helmeted knight was unpracticed but powerful, and when came the inevitable crack of his wood breaking his opponent’s, Gwyneth felt her heart similarly splintering.
Beresford saw her almost the instant she entered the palisade with her retinue. Because he had not been looking for her, he imagined that he was so far gone with love for her that, despite what he now knew about her, he still had eyes only for her. It was as if through her, because of her, he could see.
He had achieved a strange state of equanimity for all of that, an acceptance of the burden of his love and of this exquisite pain he had never before known. He even discerned a pathetically aesthetic quality to his suffering. He thought it an excellent day for the tournament. He thought it an excellent day to die.
He had, in truth, no intention of dying this day. Nor even of being wounded. He was in fine form. Never finer. He had not slept much the night before, but instead of feeling enervated, he felt invigorated in an exceptionally clearheaded way. It was as if he had entered in spirit the refuge of neutral ground on the field, where he could not be bodily harmed.
The night before, at The Boar’s Head, he had discovered that the ale had no taste, so he drank less than a horn of it. And as for the whores, he had not noticed them. Nor did he notice that he had not. He found sport outside the tavern, on the quay—all brute strength, no skill. Through it all, he could think only of Gwyneth, of how he had once thought her a beautiful, alien creature, of how he now thought her a beautiful creature and no more alien to him than his heart.
He had misjudged her. Perhaps foolishly. Perhaps willfully. She had told him bluntly that she was for Duke Henry, as her husband had been, as her father had been. She had not wished him good success against the Angevin usurper, either, as he had dared her to. He realized, of course, with a further wrenching of exquisite pain in his breast, that she would be no less loyal to her sovereign, Henry, than he was to King Stephen. It was a pity.
It was a further pity that he would not be able to win her love this day with a display of chivalrous skill. He recalled hearing that some men used the tournaments to vanquish every opponent before their ladylove’s eyes. The pity was that Gwyneth had declared herself to be a weak and peaceable creature, one who was not afraid of violence, but who did not approve of it—or was that Tyr’s wife she had described thus?
No matter. Yet it was ironic—again, beautifully so—that his extraordinary focus of mind and body this day came from the force of his love for her and from his acceptance of that love, and the certainty that all his victories would not engage her reciprocal love for him.
He h
ad much to do, however, to insure the certainty of all his empty victories. He had Langley and Gautier and, yes, the sulking Breteuil to fashion into worthy squires. This was their training for war, just as war was their training for the games. This was their school, and he was their master.
He was not aware of the heat. He was not aware of the weight of his armor. He was not aware of time passing. He was not aware of the heralds’ cries of, “Laissez aller!“ to begin, or “Hola!“ to stop, or “Largesse!“ to allow the knights to seek their just rewards and booty. He was not aware of blood flowing, of resistance to the shock of impact, of countless blows. He was only doing, as he knew so well how to do. His horse and body were one, his shield and arm one, his sword and hand one.
A lull, a pause, a moment of not doing, a moment of being. At every moment he was aware of Gwyneth. He knew that she was seated with Johanna. He knew that they had been joined by a woman. What was her name? Lady Chester? He knew that Johanna left Gwyneth’s side. Or, rather, he knew at one moment that Gwyneth was alone. He did not think again of Johanna.
He had one task to do, then another. He did them. He was momentarily idle. Only idle in body, however, not idle in spirit, where he felt the flow of continuous life and love. Langley was away from his side. Gautier was tending to his horse. Breteuil was fumbling with his lance. The lad was slow today and clumsy. Beresford felt infinite patience. Such was the role of the master.
Langley approached him and wished to draw him aside, away from the tree where his shield hung. What ailed the lad? Why was he speaking so low and so quickly? And why was he speaking of Johanna, when only Gwyneth mattered?
“That is what she told me, sire,” Langley said, his eyes wide and anxious.
The message sank in slowly. “She told you that you were to examine my weapons?” Beresford asked, not comprehending this extraordinary request. “That is Breteuil’s task.”
“I know, sire,” Langley replied, also not comprehending.
Beresford shook his head and began to walk back to the tree.
Langley stopped him. “Lady Johanna told me not to allow you to dismiss this request,” the squire said. “She knew you would try to shake me off.”
“She knew correctly,” Beresford said severely. He felt no irritation, however. Not on this day. He merely wondered briefly what ailed both Johanna and Langley.
“It concerns the unknown knight,” Langley said quickly.
“Renaut?” Beresford scoffed.
“It is not Renaut of Breteuil who is the unknown,” Langley returned. “At least, Lady Johanna said that it might not be Sir Renaut again, and because of that, you are to be sure that Robert does not disadvantage you with faulty—”
Beresford held up his hand for silence. He would not permit young Langley to fall into dishonor by falsely—and most strangely—accusing his fellow squire, Robert of Breteuil, of wrongdoing. Surely Langley was not jealous of Breteuil. Surely Langley knew that he was his master’s favorite, although on this day Beresford did not favor or prefer one over the other. He was master to them all. He did not understand what all this nonsense was about, but he remained unperturbed by it.
Langley subsided.
Beresford noted that Langley was stricken, poor lad. He could embrace the young man’s confusion. He put a comforting, fatherly hand on his shoulder. “You fear for me in the fifth joust, Hubert?” he asked, not unkindly.
“No,” Langley admitted.
Beresford smiled. “Good boy. Could it be that you think young Breteuil wishes to embarrass me somehow when I go against his uncle? Is that it? You think, perhaps, I have been too hard on Robert these past weeks and that he will make my equipment faulty so that I cannot prevail? So that his uncle will emerge the victor?”
Langley shook his head. “No, because I am not sure that the unknown is Sir Renaut. After all, Adela played that game last time, and she would not be likely to do it again.”
The logic of the situation was as evident to Beresford as it was to many another knight and spectator.“Ah, but it is the very unlikelihood of playing the same trick twice that makes it so possible!”
Again Langley shook his head. “It’s the other rumors today that worry me. Castle rumors. Of traitors. I have been worried since the moment we entered the field. Watch out for a sharp lance, not a blunt one.”
Beresford’s smile remained. It was nearly wistful. He gave the lad’s shoulder a playful shake. “Justifiable jitters, my boy,” he said. Then, firmly, “You understand that I cannot undermine young Breteuil or take his task away without offering him intolerable insult.”
Langley opened his mouth to speak again then closed it, knowing there was no profit in pursuing the matter. Beresford nodded wisely and turned to finish his preparations without giving the unusual conversation further thought.
At the appropriate time, Beresford was helmeted and armed and on his charger, riding out to the far end of the palisade where he would turn to face his opponent across the length of the field. He was ready for combat, which was to say that he was already mentally within the approaching combat. He felt the absence only of a token from Gwyneth on his left sleeve.
The call was given. He lowered his visor. He put the spurs to his charger’s flanks. His shield was up. His lance was couched comfortably in rest position, and he raised it as his horse gathered speed. He was certain that one well-placed blow on Renaut’s shield would unhorse his opponent. It would take only this one pass to decide matters. Renaut deserved no better for attempting this obvious masquerade twice.
At the moment that the two knights met in the center of the field, three things happened at once. First, Beresford recalled that Johanna had been sitting with Gwyneth on the stands for quite a while before she had taken the extraordinary step of seeking out Langley and giving him an even more extraordinary message. He recalled, as well, Gwyneth’s persistent interest in the name Breteuil. Johanna must have become suspicious of Gwyneth and tried to warn him. Second, his lance made perfect contact with his opponent’s shield in a way that should have pounded Breteuil decisively to the ground. And third, his lance broke on impact in a manner that was impossible given the angle and force of his thrust. His opponent was not even shocked by the blow, much less unseated.
As Beresford thundered past on the left, he thought he took a deep breath, but perhaps it was only the collective gasp of the spectators rising to their feet in the stands. He looked down at what was left of his lance—hardly a foot of shattered wood left beyond the circular vamplate protecting his hand. He took a professional interest in the wreck, deciding that in future he would reinforce the wooden vamplates with steel. He was otherwise unconcerned by this utter disaster. He arrived at the other end of the field and wheeled his horse around so that he could engage in the second pass with his opponent.
He knew now, of course, that his lance had been faulty. He knew as well that his opponent was not Renaut of Breteuil. Johanna’s suspicions were right: Gwyneth had arranged for his death. However, he did not know why young Breteuil should have betrayed him. Perhaps Gwyneth had smiled at the boy, and he had happily drowned in the limitless violet pools of her eyes. Beresford himself would certainly die for her, if he thought his death would win him her love. However, the only way he would die for her was if she was holding the knife herself and thrusting it clean and deep into his heart.
As he charged ahead in the second pass, he was prepared for his opponent’s sharp lance. He was at a disadvantage, having an attacking range of a mere one foot while his opponent still had the twelve feet of his own lance. Nevertheless, he was not worried, for he had easily sized up his rival’s skill on horseback and judged it low. He was prepared to take several pointed blows from the knight’s shaft and knew it would now take two or three more passes in order to inflict the kind of strategic damage necessary for his eventual unhorsing.
He did not fall into the mental trap of scorning his opponent. He knew that, had their positions been reversed, the man would have been dead
at the second pass with the perfect piercing of his neck. Of course, he allowed his opponent no similar opening, for his shield work far surpassed his opponent’s. Certainly he would have to take wounds, and he did—one to his right shoulder, then one in his right thigh. He was aware in a dreamily abstracted way that Gwyneth was on her feet, as he guessed the rest of the spectators must be as well. He was aware that squires and knights were scurrying to and fro quite unnecessarily. He was not at all distracted by the noise and confusion around him, for he was in a transcendent state of peaceful silence.
He was prepared for his opponent’s every obvious, woefully unskilled maneuver. On the fifth pass, the man deliberately dropped his lance and grabbed Beresford around his waist to pull him from his horse. This was an unchivalrous tactic at best, stupid at worst and ultimately suicidal, for Beresford was able to unhorse him at the same time.
The contest on the ground was short, decisive and little test of Beresford’s skill. They rolled together once, twice, locked in murderous embrace in the dust and dirt. Then both were on their feet, swords drawn. It should have been this easy on his horse, but Beresford was indifferent to the ultimate form of his opponent’s death, and he had interpreted this contest as a joust to the death from the moment his lance had broken.
The unknown knight was soon swordless and lying on the ground. Beresford knelt over him, ready to administer the coup de grâce. He found the buckled straps and laces that fastened his opponent’s body armor to his helmet, slit those gracefully then sliced open his throat. The thirsty dirt drank deeply of the dying man’s blood.
Beresford looked up at the gallery. He saw Gwyneth standing, her hands clasped prayerfully at her breasts. Her eyes were closed against the horror of what he had done.
Chapter Eighteen
Beresford rose to his feet. He wiped his red sword on the hem of his surcoat and resheathed it. He unbuckled the straps of his helmet and removed it. He peeled off his gauntlets. Vaguely he heard raucous cheering intermingled with the occasional wail, “Breteuil!” He was disgusted. Anyone with eyes in his head could have seen that his opponent—whoever he was—had displayed not a fraction of the skill of Renaut of Breteuil.
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